The Dominion's Dilemma: The United States of British America

by James Devine

Jackson’s fit of anger was over. He looked directly at the Duke. “Now then Your Grace,” he began in a formal manner that indicated his seriousness, “what does bring you to the Dominion at this time of year? We’ve precious little for you to see just now but mud and snow. For the former, you could have stayed in London and for the latter, gone with King Billy to Balmoral…”

  “Actually, Andrew, I thought I’d visit the South and perhaps New Orleans this month, before returning here for your inauguration. Then, as the weather improves, tour the Middle States and the West. I’m anxious to see all this land you and Winfield took from the French at the point of your cannon. From there, Ontario and, I suppose, Quebec, too, before wrapping up my tour in New England.”

  “Are we to understand, then, that you’ve retired from politics, Duke? Surely such a long time away from Parliament for the leader of the opposition is, unusual, to say the least?” Jackson cast a shrew eye at his guest, his face plainly indicating his reluctance to accept the Duke’s blandly proposed plans.

  Wellington, however, refused to be baited: “Unfortunately, Andrew, the Whigs are firmly in the saddle right now. Even if Lord Grey’s health forces his resignation---a very possible thing---the King will ask Lord Melbourne to form a new government. To simply take over the existing one, actually, with little change. So, a good time to fulfill my long-time dream to visit these splendid shores!”

  Blair sat watching the verbal chess match tensely, slowly sipping his own whiskey. Andy’s not fooled and Wellington knows he’s not, but the Duke won’t give Andy the satisfaction of acknowledging that fact. Something real big is brewing here, but Wellington isn’t ready to spill the beans about it yet. Maybe Scott was right about a slave tax… Let’s hope Andrew doesn’t lose his temper. This isn’t Layne or Jean Claude he’s dealing with here!

  Blair decided to try to lighten the mood by pretending to accept the Duke’s pronouncement of the tour. He framed his question in a way that would allow the first reference to Wellington’s traveling companion to come from the Duke himself.

  “Well, Your Grace, we can put together an itinerary for you quick enough, but concerning a traveling party: do you prefer civilian or military aides?” The lines around Jackson’s eyes showed that the G-G understood and approved the thinking behind the question.

  “No need for a traveling party, as you put it, Mr. Blair. As I said, this is strictly a private tour. And I’ve brought my own traveling party with me. The Colonial Secretary was good enough to assign one of his men, Harry Bratton, who served here in the ‘20s, as a sort of tour guide. We’ll travel fast, loose and light. Speaking of which, I dropped Harry off at the Liaison Office on the way in. I don’t suppose you’ll have room to put him up here for a few days, while we attend to details of the trip?”

  “Now Sir Arthur, of course, we’ll put your aide up here,” Jackson was cordially hearty. “There are plenty of extra bedrooms. God knows, that damn Quincy Adams carved the whole of the second floor up into them. Man had more children than Abraham…We’ll see to getting you settled in and we’ll dine at 3 p.m. Frank, here, will join us and I’ll send for the incoming Vice G-G…”

  “Ah, yes, the ‘Little Magician’ as I believe he is known. I’m looking forward to hearing about the plebiscite campaign from him. I understand he played a key role.”

  Jackson and Blair exchanged surprised looks as Wellington walked over to the fireplace to rub his hands. “Your Tennessee whiskey is medicinal, Andrew, but 23 days at sea and 1 1/2 on the road…I can’t seem to shake the cold out of my bones.”

  There’s a coldness in my bones, too, Blair thought. Because you, Sir Arthur, are hiding something from us: the real reason you’re here. He looked again at the G-G. Jackson was staring at the Duke’s back and shaking his head. Good, he senses it, too. A good performance, Your Grace. But we’re not the country bumpkins here you apparently think we are. Something’s up. It’s just a matter of time till we find out whether Scott’s right and it’s a slave tax…or something else. I’m going to keep a close eye on that ‘itinerary.’

  ___________

  Thomas had spent much of the afternoon reviewing the details of the Army’s role in the formal welcoming ceremonies. The Residency had sent word the ceremonies would take place the next day, Sunday, at high noon, in front of the Capitol. Even though the Congress was not in session, Jackson wanted the Capitol steps, as he reportedly felt it ridiculous to welcome the Duke to The Residency, when the honored guest would have already spent a night there.

  Now, a bit after 4 p.m., Tom was on his way on foot across the park to The Residency to meet with Donelson and coordinate the plans. He was, however, overtaken by Bratton, coming from the Liaison Office on horseback.

  “Well, Lieutenant, just the man I need to see. I’m to meet a Mr. Donelson concerning some sort of ceremony tomorrow and also to be assigned a room in the Mansion. Must say, I’ve been here for social events and such, but never to board…”

  Thomas looked up at Bratton in time to be hit with the first snowflakes in several weeks. The weather had been steadily worsening over the course of the day, with temperatures plummeting. Just our luck, to have snow for this ceremony. Well, better than riding down from Baltimore in it…

  “I’m meeting with Donelson, myself, Captain, to coordinate plans for tomorrow. Come with me and we’ll handle this, and then find you a bed. Won’t have to worry about you sleeping in the stables here…”

  “Very good, Lieutenant. Ah, incidentally, is the Golden Eagle still operating at the same location? Grant Street, I believe? ”

  Wilder grinned: the fox is out in the open. Wonder what’s between him and that damn Joanne? I better let Harps know he has competition. “The Eagle’s still right over there.” He pointed through the sudden snow squall to a side street running off The Residency’s grounds to the southwest. “There’ve been some changes, shall we say, recently but it’s still in the same place. Shall we go find Mr. Donelson?”

  ___________

  The planning meeting had lasted more than an hour, followed by a briefing session with the G-G and the Duke, who, despite the so-called ‘private’ nature of his trip, apparently had expected some sort of official greeting. Thomas left The Residency well after 6 p.m. and walked in blinding wet snow the several blocks to his room at the Indian Queen Hotel. Donelson, meanwhile, had assigned a Negro servant to take Captain Bratton to his small bedroom on the second floor living quarters. The Duke, of course, was to occupy the primary guest bedroom.

  All in all, an interesting, if tiring, day, Tom thought as he crunched his way through the snow-covered streets. It will also be interesting to hear what the General has to say tomorrow morning. Tom knew the Scotts were probably now already on their way to The Residency for an informal get-together. “Just three broken-down old soldiers,” Jackson had laughingly growled in telling the aides about it. Maria Scott won’t be too badly bored, Tom smiled to himself; Emily Donelson, Andy’s wife and the official Jackson hostess, had returned last week from Tennessee. I just hope I won’t be a primary topic as Mrs. Scott brings Emily up to speed on the latest Georgetown gossip... That must have been some dinner-party at the Scotts, once Lucille saw Candice. He grimaced, then grinned: Though knowing Candice, she was probably oblivious to it…

  Well, he thought as he entered the Queen and luxuriated in the warmth, a quick change out of this uniform, a few beers in the taproom and something to eat. Then it’s bed for this boy. Tomorrow’s going to be another long day…

  ___________

  Like Thomas, Harry Bratton had been up since predawn, but he had plans for the evening anyway. He was dining at the Liaison Office at 7 p.m. with Major Layne. Then, perhaps, a stop at the Golden Eagle would be in order…

  Bratton had the luxury of a White House carriage, graciously arranged by Andrew Donelson. So he declined Major Layne’s offer of a room at the Liaison Office compound and headed out into the still-falling snow a few hours later. Officially, as he told the Major, he couldn’
t chance not being available in case the Duke wanted to discuss something late tonight or in the early morning hours. The Major, who had unsuccessfully pumped Harry for an explanation for the Duke’s unexpected visit---the Office had been thrown into a panic when Bratton had causally appeared at the front gate that afternoon---was openly skeptical of the ‘tour’ concept. Though, to be frank, he had admitted, after three years in Georgetown, he’d give anything for some “real excitement.”

  Watch out, Major, Harry thought, keeping a stiff upper lip. You just may get what you wished for…and more.

  The Residency carriage had now deposited Harry at the door of the Golden Eagle, which in the snow looked unchanged from his last visit some 40 months ago. He pushed open the door and entered the half-empty tavern, stomping wet snow from his boots.

  The bartender, a tall, emaciated man whom the waitresses called Richard, poured him a glass of Port. A group of card players were intently studying their hands near one fireplace. Meanwhile, a mixed group of young men---Wilder had told him the Eagle was still the main gathering place for junior government officials---and women---from the looks of them, off-duty waitresses---were carrying on more boisterously in an alcove. At other tables in separate parts of the room, two pairs of gentlemen were finishing up their meals. Lobbyists and their prey, he thought wryly. Some things in Georgetown never change…

  As he had come across the room, he had seen all four men give him a quick inspection. Once they recognized the military uniform, they had immediately lost interest.

  He addressed the bartender, Richard, as the man refilled his glass. “I understand Mrs. Casgrave is the proprietress now,” he said.

  The hollow-checked man snickered. “Proprietress, you say? I’ve heard Joanne called a lot of things, but that’s a new one on me, now, soldier. What’s it mean?”

  “It means, you unschooled fellow, that she is now the owner-operator of this establishment.”

  Richard snickered again. “Yeah, she’s the boss, alright. And I think she’s doing some operatin’ right now, by damn. Ain’t that right Kathy?”

  ‘Kathy’ proved to be the waitress, a tall buxom blond with dirty blond hair and rouge covering up some telltale facial marks. Smallpox, Bratton thought. At least she survived. Most don’t, either here or in London.

  Kathy looked the Captain up-and-down. “Haven’t seen you here before, darlin’. New to the Liaison Office or just passin’ through?”

  Maybe this was what Wilder meant by ‘changes,’ thought Bratton. “I mentioned to your colleague that I understood Joanne Casgrave now owns and operates this establishment. He seemed to find that somewhat amusing.”

  “He called her the ‘propra-something, Kathy…”

  “Proprietress.” She turned to Bratton. “Yes, you could say that. Madame Joanne is the proprietress, the boss, whatever: she owns the place.”

  “This man says she is ‘operating.’ Does that mean she’s here but unavailable at the moment?”

  Kathy looked Harry up-and-down once again. In the back of her mind, she began to recall stories of Joanne and an English officer. She smiled, but there was no mirth in her eyes. “Madame Joanne has an appointment this evening. In fact, it began about an hour ago. I believe she’ll be busy through closing time. However, perhaps someone else can entertain you? There’s still room at the inn, don’t you know?”

  So that’s how she got the money to buy this place. Bloody hell. Should have gone directly back to The Residency. “No, thanks. Just inform her in the morning, if you would, that an old acquaintance stopped by.” He finished his Port, pushed some coins toward the bartender and turned to leave. Kathy put her meaty hand on his arm.

  “And who should I say came to call? Sir Galahad himself?”

  Bratton pulled his arm away and tossed his cloak over his back. “No, just Henry the Eighth.” It was an old joke between them. He walked out and climbed into the carriage.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Georgetown. D.C.

  February 4, 1833:

  With an assist by some nonparticipating members of the 4th Artillery, the Capitol workmen had pushed the almost 18 inches of heavy, wet snow off the building’s steps in time for the ceremony to begin just an hour late, at 1 p.m. yesterday. There had followed a welcoming reception at the Liaison Office compound that had continued on into Sunday evening. Every Counsel-General in the city had of course attended, along with members of the Dominion Supreme Court and the Cabinet. The few members of Congress who had already returned to town, or had never left, were also in attendance. It was during the reception that the Duke arranged to call on General Scott in his War Department office at 1 p.m. today.

  From his window, the General could now see Lieutenant Wilder escorting the Duke across the park. Bratton, the Colonial Office man, had been present throughout the Liaison reception yesterday but was not with them. He and that damn Layne may be cooking something up. Better make a note to keep an eye on him. Perceptive of young Wilder: under the polished veneer, a hard man, this Bratton. And none too happy to be here, judging from his attitude yesterday. Seemed formally, Britishly, depressed…

  The entire Department came to attention as the Duke entered the building. Scott moved out across the room to greet his guest. He stepped outside and spoke in formal tones. “Welcome to the War Department, Your Grace, headquarters of the Army of the USBA and also our Coastal Guard. Please come in.”

  The Duke returned the greeting and walked into the inner office. He was taking off and hanging up his cloak as Scott signaled to his secretary, Lieutenant Beaufort, for a fresh pot of tea. “Well, Winfield, in all your glory. I say, that’s a remarkable view of The Residency and the Potomac.” They settled in as the secretary poured coffee for Scott and tea for his guest before leaving.

  “By the way, Winfield, your aide, young Wilder. A rather feisty pup.”

  Scott smiled: “Feisty? In what way, General?”

  “Well, he gives as much as he takes, I’ve observed. Certainly, he hasn’t allowed my man Bratton to intimidate him. Holds his tongue till he’s asked a question, then expresses his firm opinion, for better or worse. Actually looked me in the eye and boasted of his heritage: ‘Third generation British American of Irish Catholic descent.’ Just like that. Imagine!”

  Scott nodded his huge head and smiled again. “You’ll find things a little more, shall we say, relaxed, here, Sir Arthur. In British America, you’ll find the social barriers you are used to down, simply because they were never put up. Here, a man is judged by what he does, not by who his connections and family tree may be. The Lieutenant’s family are rather well-off ship-builders in the port of Brooklyn, near the Royal Naval Station in New York harbor. Yet he fought to graduate from West Point, despite an unfortunate aversion to mathematics. He has an analytical mind and is an accomplished linguist. That’s why he’s here: he has the makings of a fine intelligence officer.” By God, I’m beginning to sound like a proud father. Mustn’t ever let the young man hear me like this…

  “He reported to you, Winfield, I’m sure, on the dialogue we conducted during the course of our journey?”

  Scott’s face became graver and his tone more professional: “He did, General. Reported that the dialogue seemed always to return to the issue of slavery.”

  “Did this feisty young ‘intelligence’ pup offer a firm opinion on why that may have been?”

  “No Sir Arthur. Though it seemed to confirm somewhat a theory we have been developing here since the Irresistible vanished.”

  It was the Duke now whose face turned graver and his tone more professional: “And what theory is that, Winfield…and who holds it?”

  General Scott looked his old commander in the eye: “That, somehow, slavery was tied into London’s desire to learn as quickly as possible whether Andrew Jackson would retain occupancy of that old house over there. As for who holds the theory: I do. Though the G-G and his key advisers are aware of it.

  “Sir Arthur, the fact that you and I are sitting h
ere today simply reinforces it. Yes, I understand that, officially, you are here on a private tour of the Dominion. Frankly, General, I don’t buy it. You are here on a fact-finding mission. And the facts you are seeking to find concern slavery.”

  The Duke put his tea cup down on the front of Scott’s desk and, continuing to lean forward, returned Scott’s hard gaze. “Tell me, General Scott, what is your position on slavery? As a soldier, as a British American subject of the King and as a man?”

  Scott leaned back in his chair and put his immense hands on the arm rests. “As a man, I detest it. As a British American subject of the King, I recognize that it is legal under our constitution, as well as British law. As a soldier, I am sworn to uphold that constitution. And I will, as long as I am physically able to do so.”

  The Duke was hard and fast: “And British law as well? Even if it, shall we say, ‘nullifies’ a part of your Dominion constitution?”

  Scott felt a lightening-like jolt race down his spine. “The USBA constitution mandates compliance with overall Empire laws.”

  Wellington relaxed back into his own chair. “So you would not be in favor of non-compliance with a Parliamentary-passed bill signed by the King that would ban something now legally functioning in parts of the Dominion under the USBA constitution? “

  The electric-like tingling had now extended through his arms and legs to Scott’s hands and feet. Great God, where the hell is this going? “I would not, Sir, any more than I would now be, have been or ever will be in favor of one or more states nullifying legislation passed by our Congress and signed into USBA law by the Governor-General. Unless and until such legislation is declared unconstitutional by our Supreme Court, it is the legally-enforceable law of the land.”

  Wellington rose and poured himself another cup of tea. “Winfield, do you see where this conversation is headed? Is this the theory you and General Jackson and his advisors have discussed?”